Shadowhunter: The First of the Name
by DominiqueMorgenstern
Summary: The Angel Raziel has given his blood to his chosen one, Jonathan; but he quickly discovers that establishing the new Nephilim race, and his his leadership amongst them, will be more complicated than he first anticipated. When he and a group of other Shadowhunters happen upon Demons terrorising a small village outside Idris, he encounters a mundane girl with The Sight...
1. Chapter 1

It was some time after the Angel Raziel's descent from heaven, and the first of his new race, Jonathan, had drank from the Mortal Cup and selected his first warriors to fight alongside him when he realised he had not taken Raziel's words seriously enough.

Jonathan had eagerly passed the Mortal Cup to all of his new recruits – perhaps thoughtlessly, in retrospect. One of his most promising, a young man of only eighteen years, named Edward, extremely reserved by remarkably self-sacrificing and courageous; Jonathan did not doubt he would make an exemplary Shadowhunter. But after the Cup touched his lips, Edward crumpled, and writhed in agony for hours and hours, mad with pain. Eventually David had arrived, and told Jonathan solemnly that there was nothing that could be done for him, aside from ending his misery; for he would surely transform into a horrid, senseless creature that lived only to destruct. He called them 'Forsaken'. Perceiving his _parabatai _was right, with great sadness, Jonathan ended his life.

After, Jonathan had surveyed his new recruits and found he felt a cumbersome weight on his shoulders. One, in particular, Albert, who had named himself Penhallow, was a great strategist, a perspicacious advisor, skilful in battle and devoted to his new wife, Liliane, and their daughter; but Jonathan had also glimpsed in him things that made him consider regret. He was not an efficient or swift killer: he had an unexpected flare for cruelty that would raise its ugly head whenever he drew his seraph blade – he liked to make demons screech in pain, severing appendages, whipping open veins spurting ichor – before he dealt the final, skewering blow. It was evident that, although Jonathan admitted it was natural for a man to feel elation, killing such hideous creatures, Albert thoroughly _enjoyed _it. He also did not like to admit that he felt nervous, afraid perhaps, around him, though he took care not to show it. Jonathan was in no position to encourage restraint therein – he could hardly admonish that he be more humane in his demon-slaughtering. They were _demons, _after all. A scourge to humankind.

There were others as well, all strangers to Jonathan, that often questioned his authority, and deliberately, it seemed, disagreed with his orders, knowing that he had no leverage over them – he could not punish them. Jonathan confessed his anxieties to his sister, Abigail, whom some of them, much to his indignation, showed her little of the respect she was due as a more seasoned warrior than they; and discovered she shared his concerns. She had even constructed a plan to resolve it: appointing Jonathan as King of Shadowhunters, and implementing consequences to all those who defied his authority. "No," Jonathan had said. "No, I refuse."

"Why?" Abigail had asked. "Everyone knows you are their leader, and yet you refuse to name yourself as such? And you demand respect from these people?"

Jonathan had sighed. "Abi, you know that I did not desire this. I never asked for this responsibility; I do not want it extended any more than it is. And I am convinced that Kingship is not necessary to gain respect, or obedience. Think about all the Kings today. Name one that does not, sooner or later, find himself massacring innocents, or embroiled in corruption. They are hardly a good example of leadership."

Abigail had recoiled, shocked, as if she'd just accidentally overheard a terrible blasphemy, "Well, if you don't need me, then." Abruptly, she'd got up, and left.

The next few days brought the bitter winter skies, deep snow, and even more frostiness from Abigail, who refused to speak to him, and anyone else, all day. As he expected, she stubbornly mounted her horse at dawn, arrayed with weapons, when they heard news that Dragon Demons were terrorising a small village outside the borders of Idris.

Much sooner than they'd thought, they saw the imposing snow-capped mountains through the high fir trees, the small iced lake, the choking black smoke. As they approached, the cutting, frigid wind carried the sounds of destruction: of crackling, smashing, screaming.

Without a word, they all drew their blades, and invoked the seraphic names that illuminated their blades. They split up, promising to regroup by the lake later. Jonathan was surprised to see his sister drift to his side. Together, they approached a stone cottage, half in flames, half crumbling to pieces.

Inside, was a small dragon demon, hissing at a hunched figure in the corner of the room: jabbing at it with short knife. It was girl – Jonathan could see she was not doing any damage, only irritating it. Abigail and Jonathan launched themselves upon it, edging it away from the girl. When they had dispatched the Demon, they brought the girl outside, using their bodies to shelter her from the worst of the flames. She struggled, wriggling out of their grasp and shouted frantically, in German, "My sister—my brother—_have you seen them?!_"

Jonathan meant to calm her, but he was stunned into silence. Ash from the smoke was streaked across her face, a ghastly contrast to her pale skin. Her eyes were tight with exhaustion and terror, and she trembled hard in her thin, stained shift. Her hair was loose: a white, creamy blonde- wondrously long-waving over her shoulders and down to her hips. Her eyes were like grey shimmering pearls, chilling, and stricken with fear as they darted around. The girl was not beautiful, but arresting, she certainly was.

Not receiving any answer from Jonathan, she spun around and applied to his sister, who simply stared, shaking her head slightly.

The girl gasped, "Then they are still in there?" She whirled—and ran towards the house, now engulfed in fire—Jonathan caught her arm, yanking her back, "No!"

An immense crash sounded, accompanied by a billow of dark smoke. Jonathan looked up to see part of the roof sag, and tumble inside the house. Jonathan covered his mouth, coughing, wiping away sweat from the heat from the explosion.

She ripped her arm from his, fell back, and sank to the ground. "No!" She screamed, a horrible sound, long and ragged. With a keening wail, she shoved her face into her hands and cried out. Rocking back and forth, she began trembling violently.

Having dispatched the remaining Dragon Demons, Jonathan's fellow Shadowhunters collected around the girl, staring at her convulsing body forlornly, as if mesmerised by her grief. Jonathan glanced around, but it was obvious the onus was on him – he stepped forward, slid off his heavy coat, and carefully placed it on her shoulders.

She jumped, squealing at the contact. Her eyes searched—and looked up at him fearfully. Jonathan spoke gently, doing his best to recall his rusty German, "Come with us, please. We can help you."

"_Help _me?!" She got up, her voice rasping and overflowing with emotion, "You didn't help my brother and sister! They are dead!"

"By no fault of our own!" Jonathan shouted back. Forcibly, he calmed himself. "Those demons – that is what they do! They kill—"

"_Demons?_ What—they were _demons_—"

Albert interjected, in rough and mispronounced German, "Of course. What did you think they were?"

"This is what we do," Jonathan continued, "We kill demons. We are called Shadowhunters,"

The girl stepped back and surveyed them all with wide, horrified eyes. "_No..._No!" She turned away and ran, heading for the forest. Jonathan and Abigail ran after her.

Grabbing her shoulder, Jonathan said, "You must stop! Be calm, please!" She faced him, her eyes incredulous.

"How can you see us?!" Abigail said. She glanced at Jonathan meaningfully, and continued, "We are glamoured, you should not be able to see us – other humans cannot. So _how is it you can?_"

The girl, panting, looked around frantically. "What do you mean, how _can I see you _– of course I can, I don't understand—"

"Ignore her-where are your parents?" Jonathan asked.

"My parents?" She answered, confused, "What?" She glanced at Abigail, over her shoulder, bewildered.

Jonathan stood in front of her, reclaiming her attention, and said firmly, "Listen to me. Where are your parents – do you have anywhere to stay?"

"No, no..."She answered dreamily, fresh tears running down her face. She said at her feet, "No, I have nowhere to stay,"

Her shoulders assumed a cramped position, and she grasped her face in her hands.

"I think she should return with us," Abigail said to him softly, in English. "We need to know more about her strange..." she glanced worriedly down at the girl's weeping, hunched figure, "ability."

Jonathan looked over at her and replied, "Yes, I think so, too,"

Before the girl accompanied the Shadowhunters back to Alicante, she insisted that she recover the bodies of her dead brother and sister, so that she may bury them; and salvage what possessions she could from her home.

The mid-day winter sun was blindingly cold as it shone numbingly down on them all: shovelling out snowy, partially frozen earth, digging graves for the girls' brother and sister, and the other mundane inhabitants of the other two houses situated further into the forest – all of whom had perished.

Jonathan wanted to be back in Idris before nightfall, so he did not allow the girl long on her knees, to pray and mourn, before they ushered her to her feet, and she reluctantly mounted Abigail's horse. She rode side-saddle behind her, her head hung. The radiant white tresses of her hair undulating in the wind looked dull in the dreary, beclouded sunset. She stared at the muddied snow as if she wanted to plunge into it. He noticed that she shook slightly, and the sickly pallor of her skin made Jonathan wonder if she was not becoming feverish. When had she last eaten, he wondered? Was she too cold? Perhaps she'd kneeled in the snow too long...Or perhaps he should not be looking at her for so long. Jonathan nudged his horse, and galloped to the front of their party.

When they had returned to his mansion, Jonathan told his servants to take her to the guests' chamber and look after her until David arrived to minister over her; meanwhile, he dined with the others and discussed what they should do.

Albert Penhallow put down his goblet of wine and projected over the table in his low, commanding voice, "Though if I were honest with you, sir...I do not think it a good idea to shelter the mundane girl." Jonathan hated it when he talked like that – his voice resonating with age and wisdom and experience. It made him feel painfully inadequate somehow, as if he were nothing more than a callow boy presuming to lead where others were clearly more suited to the role.

Simon Lightwood, a confident dark-haired Shadowhunter, whom he'd recruited only at Abigail's behest, leaned back in his chair and spoke up, "I agree. I cannot think you in earnest, Jonathan. Are you going to extend your hospitality to every helpless mundane girl you see?" A knowing smile curved his handsome face, revealing straight, white teeth, "Surely, sir, you cannot think to keep them _all_." Jonathan gritted his teeth and levelled a vicious look at him. Simon grinned. "I suppose we're merely wondering how much of your charity and courtesy is motivated by philanthropy and how much by her pretty face?" He raised an eyebrow.

Abruptly, Abigail stood up, knocking over her chair and sending her wine glass clattering to the floor. "You impugn my brother's honour, sir."

"Like I impugned yours last night?" He winked at her.

She gasped and coloured immediately. "How _dare _y—"

"Enough!" Jonathan stood, slightly stunned, and pleased, by the sweeping power of his voice, which reverberated across the walls, instantly silencing them all, "Simon, do us all the immense _honour _of shutting your mouth, for once. Despite my best efforts, I honestly _don't_ _care_ what you think about my saving a mundane girl from a very horrible death, and taking her in when she had nowhere else to go. Nor do I care what you think about _why _I did it, and I don't ever plan on condescending to justify myself _to you. _And if you _ever _presume to talk about my sister that way again in my presence, you will quickly see the limits of my generosity." He turned to Albert, lowering his volume, "Albert, if you are concerned I will make a habit of this, I can only assure you that will not be the case. I am quite aware of how unreasonable it would be to propose such a thing."

Albert nodded and answered, "I understand that she has nowhere to stay, but it is no fault of ours – we have saved her from the Demons, and thus done the only duty necessary by her. Raziel expects no more of us. You must remember, _she is not of us. _Not of our blood; she does not belong with us. She belongs with her own kind."

René Montclaire and Roderick Granville were whispering frantically in French beside Jonathan. With a stern look at the both of them, Ciarán Fairchild stood up. "What they say is true. And what if the girl tells other mundanes of what she'd seen—of us? Killing demons? Magic?" Seamus, his brother, nodded, and concurred. Malcolm Trueblood, beside him, folded his arms and said, his mouth a thin line, "If she spoke out, it could be potentially catastrophic for us, sir. We cannot allow it to happen."

Isobel Trueblood snorted, and pushed herself up, using the back of her chair. It was clear she was near her time - even over her loose gown, her enormous belly protruded, looking ready to burst, which she placed a protective hand over. Contemptuously, she exclaimed in her thick Scottish accent, "Oh, Ciarán, sit down, you fool. What women say is questioned most of the time, let alone when they run around shouting about how they saw men magically killing demons that nobody else could see. What would _you _say if a woman said that to _you_ a year ago?"

_"Isobel—_"Malcolm began reproachfully, yanking on her hand, but Jonathan interrupted.

"No, Malcolm, she's right. Mundanes are superstitious. Very. Like as not, even if the girl _did _say something, no one would believe her...And if they did, it's not as if they could do anything about it."

Alys Graymark's small, quiet voice uttered beside him, "Isobel is right. Should she speak out, they would only dismiss what she said. Ten people are different – but only one woman? I don't believe we have anything to worry about—"

The doors to the dining hall were flung open and a servant, flustered, ran through and shouted, "Sir—sir—you must come—the girl—she's gone."

"Gone?" Jonathan repeated.

"Yes, sir—disappeared. I left the room to get a jug of water, and when I came back –she wasn't there."

"Well, where can she have gone?"

"I don't know, Sir—"

Jonathan thought. "She can't have attempted escape – it's freezing cold out there—she'll die!"

"I know, Sir," The boy said. "I'm looking for her, Sir," With that, the servant turned ran out the doors.

Jonathan glanced back at the table; the others were looking up at him expectantly. "Excuse me," he said; whirled, and ran.


	2. Chapter 2

**This chapter leaves off from where the last ended. It is actually part of one, larger chapter; but I split them because together they were nearing 4,500 words :/ The second part will be the next chapter. Hope you like it! :) **

* * *

Jonathan stopped running. He looked around the corridor and thought, _if she has escaped, and you are too late...why does it matter? _

He shook his head to clear himself of the thought, and ran. Heaving open the massive oak door, he saw her there – in the alcove, against the stone wall. She had tied back her staggeringly long hair into a loose braid but some shorter locks had come free, falling dishevelled around her neck. The coat he'd lent her still mantled her shoulders, but she was still dressed in the same crumpled, sodden shift. He skirted round: she was busy frantically scanning the dark courtyard, and muttering Latin tremulously under her breath as if it were an incantation – but then he spotted the glossy opal string of rosary beads clutched in her hands. Her breath ghosted in the air for a few seconds, before her eyes snatched at him in her periphery – and she jumped back, nearly dropping her beads with a gasp.

He modulated his voice carefully. It sounded gentle, but croaked ominously as he said in German, "If you go out there...you will die." He paused, letting the word punctuate itself in the silence. "You know this." Jonathan looked up at the sky, only partially visible through the driving snow. The grounds of his mansion had all but vanished under the whiteness, piercing against the dark, that had settled throughout the day, erasing every outline. "And if you do, we will be lucky to find your corpse tomorrow morning."

The girl winced. He was not sorry for it. She addressed the ground as she replied uncertainly,"Yes. I know. But I must go. I cannot stay here. You are a stranger...you are not _human. _Please," She turned her head, supplicating his knees, "Have mercy. Let me go."

Jonathan stepped closer to her. She was tall for a girl. (Woman? Girl? He wondered whether he really wanted to know). But Jonathan was taller, and twice as broad still, and, dressed in his dark gear, a seraph blade strapped at his side; he sincerely hoped he intimidated her. "We saved your life, and yet you are frightened of us? You distrust us?"

Still, she would not look up. "No, sir, of course, I am grateful, I owe you my life, but...I must return to..."

"Return to where? To what? Your home is destroyed." He was about to say, "_Your family is dead," _but he stopped himself. "Everything there is gone."

Finally – she looked up. The darkness made her look haggard - ill with anguish. It accentuated her pallid skin; he could see the thin, light veins beneath curling around temple and down her throat...She turned her face downward as her expression turned lachrymose, her heavy-lidded, cool grey eyes sparkling with fresh tears. The rims of her eyes were red raw from the repeated tearful flaying they'd no doubt endured since the terrible events of that morning. "I...lied. When I said—I had no parents—I do—" She dissolved into tears. Inhaling a horrid gasp, a few stray hairs stuck to the inner rim of her mouth, and he yearned to move them away, but she put a shaking hand over her mouth, stifling a quiet, desperate noise. Her fingernails were long, but jagged and dirty; her knuckles were scuffed with cuts and grazes, and there was an angry red burn running down the back of her right hand, to her wrist.

His first instinct, despite his confusion, was to comfort her. He found himself stepping forward again, with no awareness of what he was going to do until he was doing it: taking her arms in his hands. What was he intending to do? Embrace her? Caress her? Restrain her?

She gawked at the invading hands in bewilderment, and jerked away from him.

"I'm sorry," he said, stepping back. "I forget myself." Fiercely embarrassed, he added, "But you are right. You _do _owe me. And it would be a very poor way to repay me by stepping out there and trying to find your way out of Idris. I can guarantee you, you will fail. Only Shadowhunters can enter and leave Idris. You will simply wander in circles, all night long, until the cold overwhelms you." He was not entirely sure this was true – after all, no mundane had ever attempted to leave Idris before.

She met his eye, her mouth open in horror. There was something alarming in her gaze, he thought, something penetratingly direct about it that unnerved him; he realised that her ethereally grey eyes were also tinged with blue, and white—"So, I am imprisoned here, then?!"

Uncomfortable, he looked away, and scratched at his jaw. He needed to shave, he thought, feeling the thick, unkempt whiskers across his cheeks; he also needed a haircut. It was so long now, nearing shoulder-length, that he could feel the ends beginning to curl. He tried to imagine what he looked like – and was disconcerted to remember that he couldn't recall the last time he'd seen his reflection. Small wonder the girl looked so afraid when probably looked like a savage. Staring at the door, he said reflectively, "No. Not if I escort you out – back to your home, tomorrow morning? Does that sound fair?"

When he looked back at her, she raised her pale eyebrows. "You mean it?"

Frowning, he replied, "Of course."

She exhaled heavily. "Thank you, thank you so much."

There was a pause. He said, "If you don't mind me asking...Why is it you want to go back? Where will you stay?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. But my father—he is still alive—at least I think he is—and I have to explain...I can't let him return to—" Breaking off, she looked again into the courtyard, as if seeing something very far in the distance.

"Of course..." It was another while before he worked up the nerve to ask her, "How is your father...still alive?"

She glanced at him, and then away. "Most of the time...he is away from home. On...'business'."

"Ah. I see."

She glared pointedly at him. He met her challenging, steely gaze, puzzled as to how he'd apparently occasioned insult.

"And your mother?" He wondered at his own courage.

"She died when I was thirteen years old."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she said. "It was her fault." She stood up straight, lifted her shoulders, and balled up the beads into a fist. With an edge of frustration, she declared, "Are you ever going to ask me my name?"

Jonathan was stunned. "I'm sorry?"

"You _saved my life_ but you won't tell me what to call you. And yet I cannot ask you, as that would be improper; but I'm beginning to wonder if you ever _will _ask me."

Jonathan felt an unwilling, smile curling his mouth up, impressed at her impetuosity, despite himself. "I think you _have _just asked. My name is Jonathan."

She nodded. "Jonathan what?"

He frowned. "I don't understand."

Sighing dramatically, she gestured to herself, "_My name _is Brunhilde Morgenstern. Call me Hilde, if you like. And what is yours?"

Oh, she meant his surname. _"My name _is Jonathan," He broke off, feeling unsure, his mouth shaping a letter...and then a different one, "Shadowhunter."

A crease appeared between her eyebrows. Doubtful, she repeated, "Your name is Jonathan _Shadowhunter? _But I thought that was what you _were_?"

"Yes, it is."

"Then, how is it also your surname? That seems very convenient—"

"It was not _always _my surname, of course—"

"So, what is your _true _name?"

He did not want to admit why he was evading the question. But, he thought, _No, it is right: to rename, reinvent myself...Before, my father used to forget my name. I was irrelevant; even Abigail was of more importance than I. The seventh son...The best service I could have done for my family was to ride off on crusade and die, so my brothers could fight over the pittance I stood to inherit. Had I done more, I might out-shone them; and they would have hated me. But now that, my old life, is irrelevant. Now, I have put that behind me. _He sighed heavily, "Oh, _by the angel-_does it matter? Just call me Jonathan."

She stepped back. "Alright." Her eyes darted away warily, and back again. "I'm sorry if I've upset you."

"No, no—"He sighed again, not knowing what to say. "We have been standing out here too long – it's cold, and I have business to attend to," Which meant a large glass of wine, and a warm fire.

She looked at the ground, diffident. "Yes. I am sorry for keeping you."

"Not at all." But his tone was far from polite. He heaved open the door, and gestured before him. "After you."

Grudgingly, she stepped in before him. Just as he was locking the door behind him, he saw the servant appear from behind one of the doors, out of breath. He gestured to Hilde and him hopelessly.

Switching to English, Jonathan said, "Yes, she was outside, but it's alright now. If you could prepare the bed in her chamber, fetch some dry clothes from Abigail's closet, and bring her wine and bread," The servant nodded. "Thank you,"

Hilde gawped at him. "I'm staying—here?"

He frowned, saying suspiciously in German, "You can understand English?"

"Yes, of course," She replied. "My father has been teaching it to me ever since I was child."

"Wh—" Jonathan's mouth felt numb: whether from annoyance, embarrassment or the cold, he did not know. "You can understand English, and you never told me?"

In clear English, with a smug curve of her mouth, she said with a heavy German accent, "You never asked."

He felt his nostrils flare and his jaw clench tight. Just then, one of the doors closed down the corridor. Looking up, he saw his sister with Albert Penhallow and Ciarán Fairchild, exiting one of the drawing rooms, in the midst of a heated discussion. Albert held a glass of wine – _he'd helped himself to _his _wine—_and Abigail and Ciaran did not even turn their heads until Albert announced, "Ah, it's our absentee leader, with...the girl. I suppose I oughtn't be surprised." He shook his head, looking Hilde up and down virulently. "I knew you'd go back on your word."

"And was what that? I don't remember making any promises."

Ciarán said, "We agreed, Jonathan, that we'd have no more dealings with her _until you let us ascertain whether or not she is dangerous."_

Abigail, unhelpfully, nodded. "Yes. We were discussing it and we were thinking whether or not her strange ability might be attributed to some..." She gestured with her hand, "latent faerie blood. It would certainly account for her...striking appearance,"

To everyone's surprise, Hilde squared her shoulders to them and said in English, "I assure you, I am _not _dangerous. I don't know how I can _see _you, but I am most definitely, thoroughly, human. Unlike you."

"You can speak English?" Albert exclaimed in shock.

"Yes." She replied smugly. "Disappointed that I'm not the uneducated peasant you thought I was?"

Albert sniggered disdainfully. "Are you certain of that? You don't look like much else," He looked her up and down contemptuously.

"Albert!" Jonathan shouted. "I never made any promises about when we'd investigate Hilde's ability. And at present, there are more pressing concerns—"

"Like _what?_"

"Like Hilde's safety—"

Ciarán objected, "How is she in _danger?_" At the same time, Albert shouted, "Her _comfort, _you mean!"

"Albert!" Rage was boiling in Jonathan and fantasised about striding over to him and burying his fist into his face. "You have said enough. Apologise. Now!"

"To whom?" Albert enquired. "Hilde—as you so call the girl—or you, _your grace_?" He bowed mockingly.

Fury reared in him. _You bastard. _"Both of us! This is your last chance," he bellowed. In his periphery, he saw Hilde, Abigail and Ciarán swallow and step back, cowed. Albert, however, just smirked slightly.

"Or what, Jonathan? You're not my king, or my lord. We're not mundanes, now. There's nothing you can do to me."

Suddenly, Jonathan was in front of him, and there were a scarce few inches separating him. Albert might have been older, his sharp face lined with cunning experience, but Jonathan had the pleasure of looking down on him. "Oh, but there is." He said quietly, snarling. His voice rose in volume, "_I _made you a Shadowhunter, and believe me, I can _un_make you just as easily. If you _EVER question me so disgustingly again, _I won't hesitate to do it—_do I make myself clear?!_"

A smile tilted Albert's mouth. "You're bluffing."

Perhaps he was. "You think so? I'll have David explain to you how it's done. And how only can do it." He was not so certain about the last point.

"Indeed?" He looked nearly amused. "Then, I think you should do that."

"I will. In future, _remember your place. _And I'd also kindly request for you to _get out._" He snatched the wine glass out of Albert's hands, smashed the goblet onto the floor, the wine rolling across the flags. Jonathan stormed up the stairs.

He heard Abigail, the traitor, mutter apologetically: "You must excuse him, Hilde, he has always had something of our father's temper."


	3. Chapter 3

**The second part of the previous chapter. Prepare yourselves for angst! **

* * *

**Brunhilde**

The apple pink-tint of dawn had brightened into icy yellow light by the time they started riding. Hers was a patchy brown mare, smaller than Jonathan's. She thought about how her own horse had fled; after the demons, and the fire, she'd gone to look for them in the barn, to no avail. She was glad they'd ran – if they hadn't, they would have burned to death.

Jonathan greeted her quietly, and sullenly, and had said nothing to her since. In truth, she was glad of this. She did not know what to say to him, after last night. When she'd retired to her chamber, the servant had knocked on her door and informed her that Jonathan was to meet her at dawn, by the stables, ready for their expedition. The servant did not enquire whether this suited her; it was an order.

Conjuring her nerve, she looked back at Jonathan and said meekly, in English, "Are you sure you'll be able to find your way back?"

He'd been staring at the reins of his horse – he looked up, his eyes tired, and drawn. Not so different from how she felt.

She did not know how long she'd slept – the night had stretched on and on, as tireless as herself, and her tears. So ceaselessly had she cried that, sometimes she'd blissfully forgotten what she was crying about –then she would remember, and curse her survival where little Wilhelm and Anika had died? How was it possible fate would be so cruel? So unjust? What would her father say? Would he shout? Cry? Hurt her? Abandon her, forever? She could not bear to think about those horrible things; she'd leaped up and vomited straight into her chamber pot. But nor could she stop herself. She was all alone now, all alone, she'd chant to herself, there was not a soul in the world who knew her, or cared for her. She had nothing. No purpose. Nothing to her name but the shift on her back. _What would she do? What would she do?_

Pacing around the room, she'd wondered if a change of scenery would soothe her maniac thoughts. She'd felt the door's thick, cold handle – and decided against it. Surely she would get lost. Perhaps it would be better if she'd went out into still, freezing night and lay down, surrendering herself to the ice and snow.

"I'm returning without you?" Jonathan asked, sounding disturbed, and puzzled.

Hilde observed that another strange, jet black mark - like the one on his hand - had been added to his neck, scaling the length of it, the fine prongs of the shape curling under and around his jaw - which she could see in it's surprisingly cutting, angular entirety, today. He had trimmed back his beard to stubble, revealing more of the line of his mouth and the evenly tanned, weather-beaten shade of his skin. Strange, she thought, for an Englishman. She'd always imagined that little, turbulent isle to be perpetually under a raincloud. Perhaps he used to be a labourer, then? _Impossible_; no common farmhand would be able to speak German as fluently as he. But it was more than that. It was how he exuded refinement and authority. His voice made you want to _listen. _It was an undoubted sound, born of comfort and privilege, the complacency of noble stock. Soft, low and amiable. Again, she puzzled over why he would not tell her his true name.

Perhaps he was of a bastard line, like herself. She'd always reluctantly admitted to her last name; her father was one of 9 bastards to the wealthy Lord Christian Morgenstern, whom he'd legitimised on his deathbed – nonetheless, people eyed her condemningly whenever she uttered that name. _There is sin in your veins._

"Yes," she replied. "You cannot stay."

There was a short pause. He said, "Then, what am I to do with your horse?"

She had not thought of that. She looked behind her, her mouth open, ready for a reply, but she could think of none. She found herself contemplating his face again, instead, surprised to observe the sun catching strands of his hair, illuminating a coppery lustre to it. He was, truly, a mightily handsome man. There was a thin, concerned line between his heavy brows, but it was a timeless face, betraying nothing, one you could carve from stone and hail forever after. He could be the same age as she; he could be fifteen years her senior. She wondered if he was married - if he'd fathered children. He looked more than old enough for it. Nicolaus and she had been betrothed at the age of sixteen. But, she thought, he cannot be wed, or surely one of his Shadowhunters would have mentioned her by now; surely he would not think to insult his wife so by openly paying so much attention to her. _No, _she decided—

"Do you have a horse of your own?" He asked.

"No, they fled in the fire."

"Then, you may keep her." He nodded to the patchy brown mare she was astride.

"Oh, no, I cannot possibly accept—"

"Yes, you can, and you will. Please, Hilde. You have more need of her than I."

Brunhilde did not know what to say. Modesty urged her to reject the offer; necessity told her to keep her mouth shut. After all, how would she get to Nicolaus' parents' in the next town, once she'd spoken to her father? On her feet? In the snow? She did not know how she would provide for the mare, but it was better than nothing. Eventually, she stayed her tongue and bowed her head. "Thank you, sir. How may I ever repay your generosity?"

"You don't have to. It's a gift,"

The hateful sight of her charred, barren home finally came into sight. It was iced with layers of recently fallen snow. There was a hard knot in her throat and tears swam in her eyes.

Abruptly, she dismounted. "Here, I must take my leave of you, Jonathan."

Jonathan yanked on the reins of his horse and his expression twisted in hurt and objection. "I confess, Hilde..." He looked around, as if looking for words, "It would not be chivalrous of me to _leave _ you here, with little shelter, no food, no money..."

Hilde sighed. "As your fellow Shadowhunters rightly pointed out, you are under no obligation to afford me your charity. You have done more than enough. You are no knight, and I am no lady. You are, I don't know, a King with a _kingdom _to rule—"

He sighed heavily. "I am _not _a King, Hilde. And Idris is not my kingdom. It belongs to all Shadowhunters."

"Yes, but you are their creator, are you not? They serve you? They follow your orders? They have sworn allegiance to you?"

"I.._suppose—"_

"Then, you have a duty to them," she said with certainty. "A responsibility to those people." If she knew about anything, she knew about responsibility. Anika and Wilhelm's faces drifted into her mind. "You cannot abandon them – and certainly not for a common girl like me," She smiled sadly at him. "Please, Jonathan. I bid you farewell." Then, she turned her back on him and began trudging through the deep snow.

"But I also have a responsibility to you!" He called after her. "What if something happened to you – it would be my fault!"

She turned. "Jonathan, it would only be your fault if you were my protector, which you are _not._ _Please. _I implore you. Forget me, and return to your people. I'll survive, I assure you."

She continued to trudge through the snow, tugging on the horse's reins. She battled to suppress her joy when she did not hear his horse turn. "No," she heard him protest. Turning, she saw him jump off his horse. "No. No, I refuse to leave. Not until I know you're safe."

She gritted her teeth to mask the bounding relief running through her. "That could be a very long time."

"Yes," he conceded. He began walking towards her, "But I'm _not _a King. I do not _rule. _My Shadowhunters don't need me. I'm sure they'll be alright."

"And when you go back—they'll never trust you again!"

He looked at her suspiciously. "Why do you think so?"

She did not want to tell him about her father. Instead she said, "Is it not obvious? If someone who was supposed to be your leader abandoned you, without warning, would ever trust them again?"

This gave him pause. He stopped and considered the snow at his feet. "And...as _you _rightly pointed out; you are a common girl. I need not heed your advice, or anything you say." He looked up, his expression stony. "I may do exactly as I please."

* * *

**Jonathan**

Hilde shouldered her way through the wreckage of her house. Looking for what, he did not know. He sighed, and scanned the scenery, recalling his childish tantrum last night – wishing that she had not witnessed it. Raziel knew what she thought of him. He thought he saw—

He ran around the small, frozen lake abutting her house—and indeed, saw a large, uneven hole in the thin ice, near to the lakeside. The black water beneath lapped against the snow-laden grit almost imperceptibly.

Terror began to creep through him. "Hilde!" He shouted.

She appeared again, grasping a dark swathe of material in her hand. "What's wrong?"

"Come here!"

She ran over.

"Was this here before?" He pointed.

"No—no, that wasn't—"She looked down at the clothing she held, and then up at him, her eyes beseeching.

"You—you don't think...it could be something else...couldn't it?!"

"Yes, yes," He stammered. "An animal, or..."

She shook her head frantically. "No, no, no," she muttered.

Before he could say another word, she'd dropped the material, and dived into the water.

_By the angel—_he quickly shed his coat, his weapons, and dived in after her.

Submerged in darkness, he could not breathe; he could not move.

He could feel the freezing, raw cold spreading through his limbs, chilling the blood in his veins.

Could he swim?

The cold seemed to stall time, dredging up dead memories of summers and summers ago, at their country-house in Hampshire: the sultry afternoon sun, the blooming verdant woods, the milky fulvous lake...Luke, Samuel and Adam standing beside one another, looking down on him, as he was desperately attempting to swim in the shallow waters. Over, and over again, he was sinking, sinking. He heard Samuel's voice, drowsy and intermittent in the undulating, cool water. _Kick your legs, Jonathan! Your arms are nothing without them! God gave you legs for reason – come on, use them! You'll sink like a rock otherwise! _ Then he'd heard shouting—a different voice. His father's? "Samuel! Samuel! Where are you!" Abruptly, he'd got out, his dripping clothes clinging to him. His father balked when he caught sight of him, looking Jonathan's 14 year old body up and down, up and down, with a shocked, repulsed expression on his face. It had been months since they'd seen each other, and Jonathan was keenly aware of what a stranger he must appear to his father: summer-browned skin, his thick, ever-darkening hair the furthest shade from his father's fair auburn. Then his father had gripped Samuel's shoulder's, his favourite son, and turned him back towards the house, leaving the rest of them staring after him.

So, he kicked his legs; moved his arms, seeking Hilde's body down, down, down. He wondered how deep the lake was. His chest was expanding for air, but he did not let his mouth open. He felt around. Nothing. Then, in the thin drizzle of light from above, he saw a wash of white – her hair, surely. It was only when he grabbed her that he realised she had someone else in her grip, and she was lifting it upwards. Forgetting modesty, he caught her with two hands and forcefully dragged the heavy weight up and up, desperately searching for the light.

Eventually, he broke the surface. With a last push of strength, he flung Hilde out of the water, onto the lakeside. She was lying on top of him, the weight of her and her father together numbing his legs. They were both shaking, hard. She was making horrible, pained noises. They lay there for a few seconds, before she rolled off him and dragged her father's body out further of the water and clasped it to her chest, crying a wretched sound, wrung from the depths of her grief.

He watched, helpless. Her father's skin was a cloying, dun colour, bloated from having been so long underwater. She had his hair, he saw. White blond – though his was whiter still, and streaked with grey.

"How could you—how could—" She accused incoherently, "_leave me!" _She cried passionately. He decided not to point out that her father may have not known she was alive. "You bastard, you bastard," she said softly, clutching him tighter when he began to slip out of her grasp. "You will be damned for this—you'll go to hell—you'll never see mama again—and you'll never see Anika or Wilhelm- or Edmund—they're gone and you're..._gone. God, I hate you!_"She screamed at him. "I _hate _you!"

Suddenly, she pushed his body away from her, and scrambled, finally falling, and put her hands over her face. She cried out with such unbearable agony that Jonathan winced. He wished he could do something. She cried and cried and cried. He thought it would never cease. Eventually, he roused her, vulnerable and wet and shaking, from the ground, and carefully helped her to her feet. She trembled, tears dripping from her nose and chin. _What does it matter now? _He thought, and threw his arms around her. "That's it—" he heard her mumble tearfully. "I have nothing, now. Nothing."

He wanted to reassure her, but he had nothing to reassure her with. Nonetheless, he wanted to say, _you have me, _but he couldn't say that, could he? He didn't know her. Instead, he stroked her wet hair and hushed her, attempting to soothe her, remembering when Abigail had held him the same way when his mother had died - and how, sometimes the best balm had no words at all.


End file.
